


La Vie en Rose🌹

by Cecileen_aka_C2



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Good Friend, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Are Twins, Deceit | Janus Sanders is a Good Friend, Female Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Female Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Latino Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders And Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Leukemia, M/M, Medical Procedures, Needles, Nosebleed, Parent Logic | Logan Sanders, Parent Morality | Patton Sanders, Sickfic, wdym those two tags cannot coexist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecileen_aka_C2/pseuds/Cecileen_aka_C2
Summary: As their dad was hired to teach in his alma mater, the twins had to move.The new school was enjoyable than expected, the crush bloomed, life seemed perfect,Until one night stained the family's happiness forever.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Kudos: 5





	La Vie en Rose🌹

**Author's Note:**

> Me, after a month of winter semester: I am failing classes and I forgot how to write fanfic haha
> 
> In my human! au Fem! Roman's name is Rosario/'Rose' and Fem! Virgil's name is Violet.
> 
> Aaand it is not C2's work if it does not include significant naming (viva la etymology)
> 
> Research maketh good fanfic.
> 
> I write fanfics to conduct literary experiments, and for this one I explored on the possibility of 2nd person POV. It's a story narrated in 2nd perosn pronouns like 'you.'
> 
> Try to guess who the narrator is before you finish reading!

The rose bush greeted the rose-colored car.

Bright rose pink facing the rusty red. 

11 might be a young age, but it is still old enough to rant about having to say goodbye to friends, So that was exactly what you were doing, complaining about this small city that will be your new home, Spanish and English words racing along the track of quick Spanish flow, long curly hairs fluttering along the gust of wind coming from the open front seat window. 

Your dad, Logan Morgenstern, a renowned astronomer, was now teaching at his alma mater, the university that shapes the significant part of the economy of her hometown. Only after he promised a tour around the observatory, a signup for community theatre, AND a $100 gift card for an art museum gift shop, you reluctantly agreed on the transfer, in contrast to your twin, who was thrilled to see a new place. 

In addition, the new home would provide an actual backyard garden (not a balcony invaded by pots) and a quieter environment for your padre to engage in his translations of Spanish literary works. Your padre, Patton Morgenstern (née Stellato) had a degree in Spanish language and literature, which granted not just a fairly successful career as a translator but also an advantage in adopting hispanic twins. 

The journey was not excruciatingly tedious. Only five hours spent in a packed car, empty McDonald’s boxes sprawled on the floor, padre providing _(_ _healthy and homemade!_ _)_ snacks nonstop, dad humming to a long drive playlist, your twin asleep with neck bent at an impossible angle, you doodling in your journal. Yep, everything was calm.

Eventually they escaped the endless highway and entered a curvy road. As the car passed grand modern architectural buildings, dad explained North Campus is the newest campus and houses College of Engineering, School of Music, Theatre & Dance, School of Art & Design, and College of Architecture and Urban Planning. So that might be your future campus.

Dad drove through Central Campus and showed College of LSA, Law School, Business School, several libraries and museums. He spent the longest time around his new workplace: Department of Astronomy building and the majestic observatory. The Central Campus was intricately intertwined with the downtown−it was hard to distinguish the school buildings and marketplaces. You could truly feel how much the university means to the city. 

As the drive continued, you looked at the Medical Campus, which was adjacent to Central Campus. There was something beautiful yet eerie about the exterior of clean medical buildings, the place where life and death intersects. 

You soon forgot about the eeriness as the car passed the stadium in South Campus (that houses many sports facilities) and left the downtown. After another 10 minutes of drive, the car finally stopped in front of a modern Tudor style house with dark gray roof and stoned arch to entrance.

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The room had rose-colored curtains. 

Screen of lavender fading from the cycle of time. 

Yet that was not enough for you to not be unhappy with the fact you have to share your room with your twin. Seriously, what kind of 11-year-old twins share a room? It would be relatively(emphasis on that) tolerable for fraternal or sororal twins, but in this case? Hell no! Even the orphanage had a strict girls/boys only bedroom rule! But then your twin always found a way to sneak into your bed, and about a month later, the caregivers just made him an exception. 

Dads promised they’ll turn their office into your room before high school, but that’s still two years and five weeks and four more days to suffer! At least your bed was closer to the window, and you could watch the sun setting over padre’s garden on your bed, so that was definitely a plus. Padre already designed the garden as soon as the move was decided: veggie garden on the left, herb garden on the right, and rose hedge enfolding the entire land. 

Maybe it was in your name, but rose has always fit you well. Shades of rose, scents of rose, blooms of rose−your presence was a full bloomed flower. 

Well, technically speaking, rosario translates into ‘rosary,’ which comes from a Latin word _rosārium_ meaning ‘rose garden.’ The caregivers couldn’t have known that, but they called you ‘Rose,’ because compared to a lengthy, mouthful and foreign ‘Rosario’ it was easier for kids to pronounce (‘children-friendly,’ they said.) Sans your twin, padre was the first person to call you by your birth name, with a nearly perfect accent, and it was the reason you chose to join his family. 

Thus there you were, the only girl in the family, _la princesa floral._ But what good does a rose without thorns do? Your twin was the thorn that had your back, protecting you from the harms. It was a fairytale of the knight in green and the princess of rose. But in reality, you lost count of the times you saved him from troubles after 144. 

And at this point he was more of a thorn in the butt. 

Well, at least not as in ‘physical damage-causing,’ but rather ‘mental damage-causing.’ The family did try candied rose petals and rose tea, and they were not as bad as they sounded, but unfortunately that was not the most ‘unusual’ stuff he has ever eaten. The orphanage did the opposite of starving kids, but he always found something to gross out the kids and caregivers in exchange for hours of nasty stomach.

Unfortunately he has been and still was _your_ idiot. 

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The new backpack was rose-colored.

Vivid fuchsia dazzling in excitement. 

Your new school actually had middle school and high school connected. It was an International Baccalaureate school that had Middle Years Programme for 6th to 10th grade and Diploma Programme for last two years. Although padre assured other 6th graders would be afraid of this challenging system, all those acronyms were still intimidating. 

At least IBDP theatre course motivated you to survive this school. Dad can save you from calculus and physics. You were born to slay Spanish, and you can tolerate most of the English class. History? Just more reading and thinking and writing. Yeah, you’ll survive this IB. …Hopefully. 

Back in old school you had zero problem making new friends. Then why was it so hard to find a spot in the chaotic cafeteria? You tried to grab your twin, but spent a good five minutes wandering around. You finally found him at the bench on the outside. He was chatting with the guys clearly looking… dangerous. Black leather jackets? Check. Sitting on tables like not knowing the concept of chair? Double check. Pseudo-gambling over one chocolate chip cookie? Triple check. At least your twin looked cool around them−or relinquishing his sanity (if there was one left) alongside their havoc. 

You managed to join the table of outsiders and finished up your lunch. 

The only reason you could survive your first day was the theatre club. Mr. Sanders was super friendly, and the giant rainbow flag hanging in his office soothed you. The diversity of the newcomers assured you can find a new friend or two here. 

Then you identified one 8th grader as the guys your twin sat together during lunch. Caramel blond hair tied into a ponytail and swept over left shoulder. Bangs hiding right eye, which appeared to be light amber. Sharp chocolate left eyes that seem to stare at your soul. Height not too tall, but unexplainably intimidating. Fashion too formal for middle school. 

He introduced himself as Janus Beausoleil. 

Mr. Sanders called for a quick ‘vibe check,’ that is, checking the newcomer’s skill. Being proud of your theatre talent, you volunteered first and picked ‘The Other Side,’ knowing well it was a duet. Mr. Sanders looked confused for a second, but after seeing how excited you looked, he smiled and picked Beausoleil, of all people, to complement the song. 

His French accent slithered like a snake, smoothly mesmerizing the listeners, only intensifying against your blazing Spanish accent. The climax was a balanced contrast between fiery explicit force and icy implicit force, both ‘persuading’ to join the other side. When the audio ended and thunderous applauses echoed in the auditorium, only one thought filled your mind: 

This was a rival beyond ‘interesting.’

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The face burned in rose-colored warmth.

A blush of cherry blossom blooming across soft cheeks. 

All because the sole reason you could not completely hate the slimy snake was sitting right in front of you in the math class. 

Violet Mitsuki. Cascade of long silky black hair reaching thighs. Clean peach-colored porcelain skin. Long eyelashes accentuating sharp eyes. Intriguing heterochromia of chocolate and azure. Such an innocent and doll-like look contrasting with dark attire. Thick monochrome stripes and purple streaks in the hair rocking along sharp and snarky tongues. It would be a crime to not get along with them. Their aesthetic was more than an eye to you in this chaotic school, and you had no idea how your twin made talking with them look way too easy, though you never vocalized your jealousy, only scribbling it down madly on a secret diary. You lamented the fact that you could and would never be able to relate to Cady during 'Stupid with Love.' 

‘Stunned’ would be an understatement to describe how your eyes froze when you found out they are a stepsibling of Reptilian Rapscallion. _But they don’t even have the same surname!_ That night you screamed into your pillow, grieving in the pain of what Romeo Montague might’ve gone through. Your twin simply enjoyed the monodrama, enjoying popcorns (literally, to padre’s great dismay, for he believed in ‘no food in bed’ policy.) 

Well, speaking of surnames, surnames are interesting, for they indicate more than a person’s lineage. For example, your dad’s surname Morgenstern is German for ‘morning star,’ and your padre’s Stellato is Italian for ‘starry,’ creating a destined, almost magical, connection between the two. The story of how they first met under the stars only adds the touch of loveliness: Dad was visiting Atacama Desert in Chile, one of the best places for astronomical observations in the world. Padre was sightseeing while studying abroad, and he offered to be the translator and guide throughout his stay. They exchanged email addresses before dad headed off to the airport, and a few months later they met again in the US, and a few years later they got engaged, and the rest is history. 

Padre chose to change his surname (but his works are still published with his maiden name) for he did not doubt dad’s name would be eminent, and dad proved his faith to be true. After the adoption was officialized your legal surname became Morgenstern as well. You only heard it once, yet you clearly remember what your biological surname was: Reyes, meaning ‘kings’ or ‘royalty.’ You also remember how your twin used to joke you were lost royal twins of some kingdom, apparently inspired by countless Disney movies, of which both of you adored. 

Whenever you drooled over this ‘violet fairy,’ your twin cut the dialogue by harassing you regarding whether you’ll change your surname once again or not. Violet morning star, Rosary of full moon, both sounded equally aesthetic and musical to the artistic twins’ ears. 

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The bloodied tissues were rose-colored.

Droplets of ruby sprinkled across a blank canvas. 

The handful of bloodied tissues has been a frequent but unwelcome guest at the family dinner for a while. Your twin assured the worried padre that colder air must take the blame, only to be refuted by dad who pointed out the temperature was not significantly low compared to past home. 

In the midst of familial scientific discussion, you disguised the internal disgust of the blood with the excitement of hanging out with Vi, or as the rest of the family called, the date. The LGBT-supportive family couldn’t be gladder to hear a week-long monodrama had a happy-ending (not that they didn’t enjoy it.)

On the next day, as soon as the school was over, you and Vi roamed over downtown like a pair of aesthetic-starved felines, marveling over fashions, sweets, stationeries and art supplies. With theatre kids jokes and quotes being constantly exchanged, quote (read: pick-up line) of the day being 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' and them seeming to shine in pastel punk garbs primarily in purple and black, life seemed to not be able to become better. 

But fate had other plans. 

Of course the perfect Friday had to be ruined with a stupid quarrel regarding the ‘invasion of personal space,’ because having to share art supplies meant destined conflict. So as you intensely stared at the moonlight shimmering through the curtain, you seriously brainstormed how to clean the basement and make it your own creative studio, only to be distracted by a whisper. 

“Ro.”

“What.”

“Go get dads.”

“Don’t you have legs?”

_“Ahora.”_

You were still annoyed at him and ready to go to sleep, but something was just not right. He sounded like he was trapped under an invisible force, inches away from choking in his own tears. The air had an odd metallic smell lingering over it. That one Spanish word only confirmed the uneasiness, for you knew too well that things were serious when he spoke in Spanish. So you rushed to dads’ bedroom, shouted at them to wake up, then returned to the room without any explanation, (how could you explain what you don't know anyway?) and turned on the switch.

You wished you never did. 

There he was, helplessly sobbing, trapped in the bed soaked in blood, blood still pouring from his nose. The scream was just stuck right behind your throat. Padre dashed to his side and comforted him while dad grabbed as many towels as possible, which soon turned red one by one. In the midst of this havoc you just froze at the doorway, not knowing what to do or say, only watching him being swept up and carried to the car, bundled up in towels. 

As you watched over the car hurriedly disappear behind the corner, the realization hit you:

 _That_ would be the last words you shared with your brother for a while. 

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The rose-colored bedspread couldn't bug you.

Stains of madder that already deepened to black.

You only wandered−first around the room, then across the hallway, soon the entire house. For you knew too well that no nightmare could beat what you just witnessed, you chose to watch over the house till the sun rose again. Resetting the alarm clock reminded you that no one realized at that moment, but you were the first one to do so, and couldn’t be more grateful that it was Friday night. 

You wandered around the house to distract yourself, but every single cell of your gut instinct ordered you to wonder: is he going to be ok? Could it be not worse if you brought dads as soon as he whispered? Didn’t his skin look concerningly pale with mysterious bruises? When did it start? Why couldn’t you notice earlier?

You barely fell asleep as the sun rose from the horizon. 

When you opened your eyes the sky was clear and bright, as if everything that happened overnight was just a nightmare (Fine, one _hell of_ nightmare.) But the silence echoing across the hallway and the faint metallic smell lingering above the emptiness reminded you none of it was a dream. Though you were full with worry and woe, you managed to cook a cup noodle for lunch-dinner. As you hesitantly slurped noodles one by one, more thoughts clouded your mind. Schoolworks or personal projects could not distract you. For a second you were tempted to call Violet, in a sheer hope of a gossip distracting you from this distressing drama, but you would have to explain to her what happened, and how can you explain what you don’t know? 

So you sprawled across the couch and ran the Disney princess movie marathon as long as possible, letting the fatigue pay a visit. _Maybe brunch can be an oatmeal with banana slices?_ You decided right before you fell to subconsciousness as the credit roll of _Mulan_ appeared. 

Banana slices with a spoonful of Nutella gave you enough energy to pick up a paintbrush. Yet as soon as you opened the paint bottle, the smell triggered the metallic trauma, (and the fact that it was red did not help at all) made you gag and sprint away from the canvas. The sound of your gagging reminded you of how he coughed as if choking himself and only made you even sicker. 

Only dad came back home on Sunday evening for another school week. The dinner was far from a typical fancy Sunday dinner: Kraft Mac n Cheese with chicken nugget and broccoli. While dad was a decent cook, (padre was just _excellent_ ) it was evident that the quality of meal was largely due to the distress. You did not dare to ask dad anything and just hesitantly swallowed down the food. 

Thus a chaotic week passed in a blink. 

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The rose-colored eyes stared at the void.

Webs of deep cerise only continuing to burn in agony. 

Who knew only three words were sufficient to despair the entire family? 

Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, ALL for short. The most common case of childhood leukemia. Though doctors said children patients respond to treatment better and have a higher chance of being cured, it only sounded meaningless to a grieving family. 

Later you heard how the bone marrow test was performed for the diagnosis, and you shuddered through the entire explanation. First the skin is cleansed and anesthetic is injected to numb the area, usually the back of hip bone. Next a 16-gauge aspirate needle (diameter 1.6 mm) is inserted via manual force and pressure all the way to the bone. Then the needle is twisted to advance through the bone cortex and into the marrow cavity. At last a syringe is attached and draws out a sample of bone marrow that will be sent to a lab and tested. 

Your brother never tolerated needles well. You always took the vaccine shot first as a ‘brave older one’ and held his hands tightly as he received his. The intrusive image of a needle as thick as a tip of chopstick being drilled to your bone paralyzed you in terror. But you knew it was nothing compared to your brother’s despair. 

Padre practically lived in the hospital−you barely saw him once a week, twice if you were lucky. You have been closer to padre since the first day (while your brother was fascinated by dad's boring science stories,) so you couldn't help but feel like he was taken away from you. Even if you had a phone you didn’t, couldn't call him unless it was an emergency. Plus now the family standard of ‘emergency’ was ‘life threatening.’ Dad occasionally visited home to make sure you were not forgotten. You did your best to manage the home, but there were too few dishes to be washed and laundries to be done, in contrast to too many rooms to be cleaned. The bloodstained bedclothes were left untouched, reminding you of the living nightmare you’re stuck in every night. 

Life was slowly slipping through your fingers like a river of sand. You managed to not fail classes only because Vi and Janus were holding you. They forced you to eat during lunch and even generously let you stay at their place for several days. One night you watched _John Q_ and Jan dissed on 'crappy American healthcare' for hours (till Vi shut him up with "OK boomer.") They filled the gaps and holes on the label called _‘familia.'_ You slowly began to think Janus is not as bad he seems. 

When Mr. Sanders quietly asked you how you were doing after the club one day, you immediately bursted into tears. No adults have asked you that for a while. Blinded by tears, you heard him (mildly) panicking and felt his hands leading to the couch. Soon you smelled a nice green tea. You hesitantly wrapped your hands around the cup and shivered at the warmth you didn’t deserve when your other half was hurting. 

Something intangible inside your heart shattered from the heat. 

The rose-colored glasses.

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The rose-colored ribbons fell on the floor. 

Raspberry shining too bright in the blankness. 

You were aware chemotherapy can cause hair loss beforehand, but witnessing the curls he adored and put in a short ponytail scattered across the entire pillow was as traumatizing as the nosebleed overflow, if not more traumatizing. 

The fact that it was your first time visiting him while he was awake did not help at all. So far he has been asleep, looking so peaceful in his sleep, free from all suffering, but it was a painfully evidently ephemeral tranquility. 

He motioned you to sit beside him and you obliged his request. He stroked your fishtail braid with ribbons woven between it, then violently untangled it and buried his face in your hair, screaming the shriek that will definitely haunt your sleep for several days. 

You (correctly) identified the emotion as a mélange of denial and anger of ‘not having.’ At the same time you abhorred how he was acting like a child, but then immediately slapped you mentally for thinking that. 

Possessing what you want can be a privilege. You naturally realize that when you overhear your parents discussing how to pay the hospital bills. Eventually you restrain yourself from having the stuff and food you used to love and instead buy what he loves and deliver them to his room. 

Chaotic seven weeks passed in a blink. The doctor invited the family to his office and advised to be mentally prepared for the worst case scenario. Padre immediately bursted into tears. Dad just hesitantly thanked him for the notice. 

Who even said seven is a lucky number? 

Though no one dared to tell the news to him, as if he sensed his possible fate, your brother joked how hospital teachers should teach how to write a will, which made padre to wail while holding him close and dad to yell with tears in his eyes. It was not his worst joke, but definitely the cruelest. 

One day Vi asked you for his room number. You weren’t surprised, after all they were his friend before your crush. But when they appeared with short hair barely touching their shoulders on the next day, and you found out he was given a beautiful black wig (unfortunately for poor night-shift nurses, he used it more to freak them out than actually wear it,) the memory from the past slipped through your mind. 

Every adult, from orphanage caregivers to social workers, told you to be your brother’s first and last protector. You always stood against the bullies, jeers calling you ‘tomboy’ doing zero damage with your brother hiding behind you and holding onto your arm, only fighting back physically when they called him ‘sissy.’ Every night after the fight he would crawl into your bed and whisper anything like _princesa guerrera_ or _mi heroína_. Those titles became your reason for being, and your big ego lived up to your dream. But now−

You could ~~should~~ have cut away your hair before they did but you didn't. 

You selfish swine. you call yourself an older sibling?

You failed your raison d'être.

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The eyes shed silent rose-colored tears. 

Heliotrope raining in the solo of ambivalence. 

You wandered along the hallway, because you did not doubt you were a coward. At least this time you had an excuse to not enter his room: you immediately identified two familiar voices humming along a secretive conversation. You did notice them leaving the room but chose not to respond, just letting them drag you to the cafeteria without struggle. 

With three cups of coffee and some scones in between, Violet quietly narrated their own sibling drama, back in the times when Janus could not accept his new sibling no matter what, the tension finally loosened when Vi woke him up from a nightmare and comforted him back to sleep with a cuddle. Then Janus took over and elaborated the story of how bitch he was but he went over his redemption arc. He constantly apologized to Vi and worked on his way to be a better sibling. He said recognizing your bitchness (or 'feeling like a sibling failure') is the first step to be a better one. At the end of his story, he handed you over a pamphlet about well-sibling syndrome and a business card of his counselor. He calmly explained that it is okay to feel guilty, angry, or any kind of negative emotion regarding this situation, and being the healthy one does not restrict you from receiving the help you need. 

You sincerely thanked him for the first time. 

That evening dad drove you to the observatory. The night sky was clear and black, just like Vi’s hair, and it provided you some sense of mesmerizing comfort. But the tranquility was soon broken−

_“Princesa."_

His Spanish accent always sounded more rigid compared to the rest of the family, just like his personality, and it has been the family favorite joke material at the dinner table, where morsels of Spanish were sprinkled over English. But this word was shaking, no sign of typical rigidness to be spotted.

It happened as soon as you reacted to the peculiarity and met his eyes. 

The man who always seemed unbreakable collapsed in front of you, paralyzed in the pain of a parent forced to helplessly watch their child’s life at the mercy of God, crying his heart out. 

You have never seen him crying. 

So you (rather awkwardly) prevented him from completely collapsing by hugging him around his waist. He bawled into your shoulder, continuing the monologue as if he’ll die if he doesn’t, starting from how he desperately wanted to believe stars could make wishes come true, apologies that he clearly knew wouldn’t reach you (though you chose not to refute him) of forgetting you too were still a child, gratitude of choosing them to be your parents despite all flaws, until he was completely drained out. 

Your mind still lingered on the word _princesa_ _._ Princess. What your dad called you when he tried to get along with your imaginative play. Then your mind began to race out: the first time dad showed stars with his telescope, the space-themed cake for their first adoption anniversary, the constellation stories for bedtime. And the familiar warmth you named _‘_ _amor'_ reignited. 

You took out a rosewood rosary, the only thing your biological mother left with you. You only remembered bits of phrases from the Spanish translations provided in the bibles from church, but you switched between the languages as you began to pray, counting the beads. Dad's hands wrapped your hands and he began praying too, his monolingual prayer recited in staccato caused by choking sobs. The desperate hearts played a harmony that overcame the one-inch-tall barrier of language difference. 

Then a cellphone rang.

It was padre.

───── ⋆⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅❁⋅⋆ ─────

The rose-colored evening sky shimmers. 

A tint of coral smeared at the tip of the petal. 

You have never found the exterior of the university hospital beautiful until now. 

They found the bone marrow that can save your brother. In less than two weeks the transplant will happen, and then several weeks have to pass till the transplanted stem cells start to grow and make healthy blood cells back to the normal quantity (this process is called engraftment.) The doctor generously lets the family share the joy, only to be dragged into the family’s group hug. And you cry in front of your dads for the first time since that night. 

85% of American children with ALL live at least five years after the diagnosis. If a child patient has been in complete remission (reduced signs and symptoms) for more than five years, they are highly likely to be cured of cancer. With the continual development of science introducing new treatments that will improve the survival rates, the family finally finds a spot to hope. 

And when the dark and stormy night has finally gone, when they see the new day dawn, the family will wonder how they wandered for so long, so blind, trapped in an abysmal despair. The new day proves the tears they shed were never in vain. 

Surely it is still too early to hope. They still have to wait at least five more years to confirm the return of happiness. And that happiness is not even solid; the disease can strike back at any time. Yet that cannot stop them from dreaming: Maybe he can return to school. Maybe they can go to Disney World. Maybe both twins will go to their dad’s alma mater. Maybe both twins will tie the know with their destined partners. And maybe one day, they will bring the newest members to the family. 

So you now sprint along the hallway, in a bursting energy of optimism, shrugging off dads’ shout to not run in hospital, for you can dodge every cart and passerby with great agility, every shade of white seeming to shine. 

And when you finally reach the door and slide it open, there he is, your only biological family and younger twin brother, biggest and sweetest apple of your eye, the one gemstone that is worth your life to protect, eyes wide open at the surprise visit. You immediately and correctly assume he doesn’t know this wonderful news yet, so you begin brainstorming the most fabulous way to announce as you approach his bedside, while suppressing the great urge to tackle hug him with even greater effort. 

Then you ask, with big round hazel eyes, tears dangling off from thick eyelashes, fear and hope glistening in harmony−

“Remus, you’ll live, right?”

_ Si, si viviré. Viviré por ti, mi querida hermana, mi vida en rosa.  _

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a French phrase that literally translates into 'life in pink' but can also mean 'life in rosy hues' or 'life through rose-colored glasses' since 'rose' means both the color rose(=pink) and the flower rose.
> 
> Raison d'être is also french and literally translates into 'reason for being.' It means the most important reason or purpose for someone or something's existence.
> 
> And Spanish translations for non-Spanish speakers:  
> La princesa floral: the floral princess  
> Ahora: now  
> Familia: family  
> Princesa guerrera: warrior princess  
> Mi heroína: my heroine  
> Princesa: princess  
> Amor: love  
> And last but not least:  
>  _ Si, si viviré. Viviré por ti, mi querida hermana, mi vida en rosa.  _  
> _ Yes, yes I will live. I will live for you, my dearest sister, my life in rose.  _
> 
> Similarly 'rosa' means both the color rose(=pink) and the flower rose.
> 
> Me, drafting the fanfic first: alright, 10 sections, each less than 500 words  
> Also me, about to finish the final sections: welp my life is a lie 
> 
> And there's also me who references own high school+university experience in worldbuilding and reflects on past trauma to mention well sibling syndrome in the fanfic haha
> 
> But seriously, well sibling syndrome is a thing, and you are still valid even if you are not the (physically or mentally) sick one.
> 
> As explained in the text:  
> Morgenstern is a German surname meaning 'morning star.'  
> Stellato is an Italian surname meaning 'starry.'  
> Beausoleil is a French surname meaning 'fair sun.'  
> Mitsuki(満月) is a Japanese surname meaning 'full moon.'  
> Reyes is a Spanish surname meaning 'kings' or 'royalty.'  
> And Rosario is a Spanish word for 'rosary.' 
> 
> So I wanted to create some symbolism of 'the sun, the moon and the stars protecting the royal twins.' I could've also chosen 'Estrella' as the twins' surname, which means 'star' in Spanish.
> 
> The multi-nationality of surnames and mismatched nationality between given names and surnames, they are the beauty of multiethnic land, aren't they? 
> 
> The plot is inspired by _A Summer to Die_ by Lois Lowry. If you read it you might recognize the blood stained bed part. Lowry was my middle school fav author-I read the entire _The Giver_ series and adored _Number the Stars_!
> 
> Should I write the sequel with happy ending or sad ending (or both?) Let me know in the comments!


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